


Scenes From a Relationship:  Hand in Hand

by coralysendria



Category: Independence Day (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralysendria/pseuds/coralysendria
Summary: Five times Milton and Brackish held hands covertly and one time they didn't.
Relationships: Milton Isaacs/Brackish Okun
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Scenes From a Relationship:  Hand in Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowerdeluce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/gifts).



1.

_October 15, 1981_

"What're ya reading?"

Dr. Milton Isaacs looked up from his book. He had tucked himself into a corner of the cafeteria with the hope that he could eat his breakfast and read in peace before he had to report to work. Instead, his boss, Dr. Brackish Okun, stood on the other side of the table, a breakfast tray in his hands, his eyes on the paperback that Milton was holding in place with one hand, while spooning up oatmeal with the other.

His spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. He could tell that Okun wasn't going to go away without getting an answer to his question. That fierce curiosity had brought Okun to Area 51, and it had almost gotten him killed in Mexico not so long ago...which was how Milton had met him.

Okun was admitted to the hospital where Milton was serving his residency with the strangest case of amnesia Milton had ever heard of. Brought into the emergency room unconscious, Okun would wake every morning, with no memory of the previous day. For a little over a week, Milton -- the only doctor allowed to speak to the patient -- would patiently answer Okun's questions every morning. The peculiar amnesia had occurred after Okun had encountered an alien ship in Mexico. He remembered every minute of his trip to Mexico, but he couldn't remember a single second of his time in the hospital.

After several days, Okun started to regain his memory. Several days after that, he was discharged from the hospital. And several days after _that,_ Milton found himself across a desk and a stack of NDAs from a Colonel Spelman, who was offering him a job. It seemed that Okun wasn't _entirely_ the whacko he had seemed to be. There really _was_ an alien spaceship, and Okun was being put in charge of studying it. There were _also_ three alien bodies, and if he agreed, Milton would be put in charge of studying _them_ , as well as tending to the health of the other workers at the research center with the non-illuminating name of Area 51. 

And now Okun was standing over him a half-grin on his face. Milton could tell that his new boss was about to reach out to slip the book from under his fingers, so he lowered his spoon back into his bowl, let the book flip closed, and held it up for Okun's inspection.

" _Lord Foul's Bane_ by Stephen R. Donaldson." Okun put his tray down and slid into the seat across from Milton. "Is it any good?"

"I haven't decided yet," Milton said, keeping his sigh to himself. So much for breakfast and reading in peace. Still, he did enjoy talking to Okun. The tentative friendship they had formed in the hospital seemed to be continuing here in the underground research center of Area 51. Milton wondered if that friendship was the reason he had been offered the job. He was pretty certain -- though Colonel Spelman hadn't actually come out and said as much -- that Okun-wrangling was as much a part of the job as research into alien physiology.

"Well, what's it about?" Okun reached out and, grasping Milton's hand, turned it so that he could read the book's cover synopsis.

Milton, well used to Okun's occasional failures to grasp social niceties when he was in pursuit of something that interested him, just sat there patiently. When Okun didn't release his hand right away, he just rolled his eyes, and went back to his oatmeal. Other than the angle at which his hand was being held, Milton didn't find it uncomfortable. Actually, he kind of liked it. Okun was not unattractive; he had beautiful blue eyes, and Milton liked his dark, shaggy hair.

And then Okun slipped the book from his hand altogether, opened it and started reading.

Milton restrained another sigh. "I was reading that, Brackish," he said mildly.

"What? Oh, yeah, yeah. I'll get it back to you. Soon's I finish it."

That time, Milton did sigh, and with a half-amused, half-exasperated shake of his head, he returned to his breakfast. 

2.

_May 28, 1990_

The elevator door closed behind the last of their colleagues, leaving Milton and Brackish alone. Brackish sidled over to where Milton stood in the corner and casually took his hand. He turned to Milton and with a sweet smile said, "Kirk."

"No," Milton disagreed, continuing their interrupted argument and gently squeezing Brackish's hand. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Brackish. Picard is definitely the better captain."

"Kirk," Brackish insisted, with a steely glint in his eyes.   
"Okay, look, if a Klingon ship fired on the _Enterprise_ , what did Kirk do? He blew them out of space!"

"Hardly a good comparison," Milton replied, "since the Klingons were allies of the Federation by the time Picard became captain."

"Picard was all talk, talk, talk, talk, talk," Brackish said. "All he ever did was talk. Kirk was a true hero -- he got out there and fought for what he believed in."

"He trampled all over the Prime Directive!" Milton exclaimed. "He was constantly rearranging planets to suit himself. And let's not even get into the number of sexually-transmitted diseases the man must have contracted." The physician in Milton shuddered at the thought, especially knowing just what diseases lurked on his own planet, let alone any others. The researchers at Area 51 knew for a fact that there were other inhabited planets out there. Humanity could be wiped out by one careless astronaut.

"Kirk was a true pioneer," Brackish said. "An explorer. Picard was a French guy with a British accent. What's up with that?"  
The elevator slowed and came to a stop. As the chime sounded, the two men dropped hands. Brackish shuffled a little apart from Milton. Milton missed the warmth immediately, but they couldn't be seen holding hands. Not on a military base, not even one as relaxed as Area 51.

The doors opened and Major Mitchell got on. "Hello, Doctors," he said with a polite nod to both of them.

"Hi," Brackish said. "Listen, Major, Dr. Isaacs and I were just debating a very important subject, and we would like your opinion."

Mitchell moved toward the opposite wall and turned so he could see both scientists. "I'm not sure what sort of help I can be," he said slowly, "but all right."

"Who is the better captain," Brackish asked. "Kirk or Picard?"

"A very important debate, indeed." Mitchell had an impressive poker face, but Milton was positive that he saw a glint of humor in the major's eyes. As the elevator slowed and stopped at his floor, Mitchell turned to once again face the doors. As he exited the elevator, he said over his shoulder, "I was always partial to Han Solo, myself."

The doors slid closed and there was a moment of silence on the elevator. 

"Now that's just not right," Brackish said. "How can he prefer _Star Wars_ over _Trek?_ I thought he had much better taste than that."

"Definitely not right," Milton agreed. "How could they assign a man like that here? Don't they know better?"

"Long ago in a galaxy far away, my ass," Brackish said. The elevator stopped again; this time, it was Brackish who stepped out.

As he stomped away down the corridor still muttering to himself, Milton decided he should probably avoid mentioning to Brackish how compelling he found Luke Skywalker's narrative arc.

3.

_June 21, 1994_

When Milton arrived at the monthly staff meeting, the other department heads and Major Mitchell were already present. The low buzz of conversation ceased as he slid into the seat which had been left empty for him. Brackish favored him with a brief smile, before both turned their attention to Area 51's current military commander. 

Major Mitchell was young, Milton thought, to be a commanding officer, but then Area 51 wasn't exactly a high profile base, and it could be a stepping stone for bigger and better assignments. Mitchell was the fourth commander to be assigned here since Milton himself had started working on the base.   
Mitchell was, however, the first to actually take an interest in the scientific work being done here. The three previous commanders had confined themselves to dealing with the military aspects of the base only. Each of them, after meeting with Brackish once or twice, had preferred to deal with Milton. He understood, he supposed; Brackish wasn't everyone's cup of tea.  
Mitchell, though, was different. He had an interest in the sciences, and upon his assignment here, he had taken the time to acquaint himself with the researchers in each division and what they were working on. He had also instituted the monthly staff meetings so that everyone could be kept up-to-date on what everyone else was doing. He even contributed to the meetings by letting the scientists know what was going on with the military personnel.

It all worked quite well. Even Brackish noticed how smoothly everything was going, and Brackish seldom noticed anything that didn't directly relate to what he was himself working on.

"All right, folks," Mitchell said, "let's get started." The conversations around the table quieted down. "We may as well start with what happened with the LXR-73. Dr. Okun? Has your analysis provided any further answers?"

Beside him Brackish shrugged. "The power grid in Sector Three wasn't up to snuff."

Mitchell nodded. "Okay. What can we do to bring it up to snuff?"

"I dunno...wait twenty years for the technology to get better?"

Mitchell's eyes narrowed very briefly. "Is there any way you can upgrade it now?"

"No," Brackish said. "The laser is ahead of its time. It's like the damn ship -- we can't power it with the technology we have here."

Mitchell nodded. "Can you rig something?"

"Were you even listening to what I just said?" Brackish's voice started to rise.

Milton frowned in Mitchell's direction. It wasn't like the major to press on an issue like this. He normally accepted Brackish's word without question. Something else was going on, something that was probably not going to be good for any of their blood pressures.

Without turning his head, Milton slowly moved his hand under the table until it was resting on Brackish's leg. The contact would help ground the other man and keep him from getting too excited.  
It appeared to be working; Brackish grabbed his hand and held on, and some of the tension bled out of his voice. Amongst the researchers, it was known and accepted that Milton and Brackish were more than just friends; too many of them had witnessed Milton "wrangling" Brackish for it to be a secret in the close-knit community. But they all conspired to keep the information from the military contingent on the base. He suspected that the other department heads were aware that he and Brackish were now holding hands under the table, but Mitchell didn't know, and never would.

"I can't just 'rig' something, Major," Brackish said slowly, "because even with the state of the art equipment we have here, as well as what little technology we have managed to reverse engineer from the ship, we simply do not have the ability to properly power the laser."

"To be more accurate, Major," Milton interjected, "we can _power_ the laser, but we don't have the ability to either properly shunt the thermal output or to cool it."

"Exactly," Brackish agreed. "It was the heat buildup that caused the meltdown."

The major sighed. "You're the expert, Dr. Okun. My superiors will be disappointed; they were hoping to be able to develop a weapon based on your design."

Milton blinked; his fingers tightened on Brackish's. It was inevitable that their research here would be put to military use, but they had been ignored for so long that it was a bit disconcerting to know that someone somewhere was paying enough attention to what they did here to know about Brackish's failed laser.

Brackish shrugged. "Tell them to come see me in twenty years, Major."

Mitchell smiled briefly. "Maybe I will. All right. Let's move on, shall we? Dr. Isaacs? Anything new in Xenobiology?"

Brackish squeezed his hand as Milton organized his thoughts and began his report. 

4.

_July 2, 1996_

In the fifteen years since Milton had arrived at Area 51, the research facility had changed dramatically. Originally, it had consisted of a few basements and sub-basements under the Groom Lake facility. The research team had been Brackish Okun and a few older scientists who had been here since the ship was brought in. The original team had been old men when Brackish was brought aboard; one by one, they had all succumbed to time. Since Brackish had been put in charge, the research facility had been expanded, mainly downward. There was now a full military presence as well as scores of researchers. In terms of population, Area 51 had gone from being a farm in the middle of nowhere to a small city, complete with mayor (Major Mitchell, the military contingent's commanding officer) and deputy mayor (Brackish, as head of research). As such, it had all the characteristics of any large group of people, and it somehow fell to Milton as chief physician to handle them all.

The book clubs and movie nights organized themselves. Isolated as they were, it quickly became the custom for those who had any sort of skill to teach classes, so they had knitting classes and pottery classes, embroidery classes and woodworking classes. They even had a thriving chapter of the Society for Creative Anachronism -- though like all things at Area 51, it had to be kept apart from the outside world, so they called themselves the Unknown Kingdom. To allow full participation by both military and research personnel, Monarchs of the Unknown Kingdom were elected instead of winning their position in tournaments. Major Mitchell had even been King a couple of times.

And, of course, as with all groups of people anywhere, there were always those who wanted to get away for more intimate gatherings. There weren't very many places in Area 51 where consenting adults could go for some...adult time, especially for those folks who, for whatever reason, wanted to avoid being seen coming and going from their paramour's private quarters. After a few rather embarrassing incidents where several groups of consenting adults all consented at the same time and in the same places, it fell to Milton to organize yet another activity. Brackish called it "the Nookie Club" with a grin and a rakish waggle of his eyebrows. Milton just shook his head and shouldered the responsibility; after all, this was part of keeping personnel happy and healthy, so it fell under his purview. In order to preserve some measure of privacy, only one name was required to reserve a spot, and Milton kept everything he learned strictly confidential. They were all his patients, so he invoked doctor-patient confidentiality. It was especially important because not all of the pairings would be looked on with favor, and not all of the users of the new system were researchers. The military personnel stationed here were, in their off-duty hours, as much part of the community as everyone else, and while the military had officially become more permissive, certain activities and preferences could still get one drummed out if they came to light.

He was reasonably certain that, by now, he and Brackish were safe enough; they had never flaunted their relationship and were always careful. Besides, they really were indispensable to the project at this point. He had come to the base as a physician, yes, but he had completed a degree in astrophysics before switching to medicine, and after coming to Area 51, he had studied several other disciplines. He knew as much about the ship and its crew as Brackish did now, and they worked together as a seamless team. Other personnel, however, were not so fortunate or so sheltered. And so Milton ran the Nookie Club, and occasionally, he used it himself to schedule some alone time with Brackish.

All of which explained why Milton was climbing into the cockpit of the alien craft, wearing a headlamp and pushing a full box ahead of him. The first time he had climbed up here, it had been with a sense of foreboding, which had given way to awe. This ship had come from another world, built by intelligences unknown to humankind. It had actually traveled in space, something that Milton knew he would never do. Standing in it was both terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

But after fifteen years, the ship no longer had the power to amaze. It had simply become one of the more private spaces in the base, no more interesting than a supply closet. Less so, in some ways, because one could never be quite sure what sort of interesting stuff might turn up in the supply closets. _Familiarity breeds contempt,_ Milton thought, standing up and shining his headlamp around the small space. _Still, it does make a nice, cozy, private picnic spot._

He removed the lid of the box -- an ordinary paper box, because a scientist carrying a paper box was easy enough to ignore, but a physician carrying a picnic basket through the halls of a secret research facility was something else entirely. Inside, wrapped securely to prevent clinking were a bottle of wine and two stemless goblets, a couple of votive candles in glass holders pilfered from the chapel, some cheese cubes, and a box of fancy crackers. It wasn't much of a picnic, to be honest, but it wasn't so much the picnic, as the chance to be alone together. He took everything out of the box, spread the thin blanket that had cushioned the glassware on the floor, set out and lit the candles, and poured some wine. The headlamp went onto the floor near the top of the ladder.

Shuffling noises at the base of the ladder heralded Brackish's arrival; his wild grey hair preceded him into the ship. He took in the wine and snacks, the tiny flames of the small candles, the thin blanket spread on the floor, and grinned. "Hey, babe."

Milton's eyes crinkled with his answering smile. "Hey, yourself. Come up here."

Brackish climbed into the cockpit. He kicked off his shoes, stepping carefully across the blanket in his socks.

Milton stared at Brackish's sock-clad feet. "Did you know that you're wearing one brown sock and one white?" He handed over a glass of wine as his partner settled down next to him.  
Brackish lifted his feet, one after the other, craning his neck to see them. Even in the dim light, it was obvious that the socks didn't match. "Huh. I thought they felt a little different." He shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't matter if they match as long as they keep my feet warm."

"I suppose not," Milton said fondly. "Did you have any trouble getting away?"

"Well, I did have to give up a _Galactica 1980_ marathon in order to get here," Brackish teased.

"I appreciate the sacrifice," Milton replied gravely. "I know how much you enjoy the adventures of Captain Troy and the Super Scouts."

"It's a pretty big sacrifice," Brackish agreed. "I mean, Kent McCord--"

"Oh, shut up." Milton leaned in and kissed him. He tasted of wine, and it had been a long while since they could last steal some time together, so despite his stubble and chapped lips, the kiss was sweet. Their hands met and fingers entwined.

"You could do that again," Brackish suggested when Milton pulled back.

"You wouldn't mind?" Milton asked, raising Brackish's hand to his lips. "What about Kent McCord?"

Now it was Brackish's turn to tell Milton to shut up. "Come here," he growled, tugging on Milton's shirt with his free hand.

A tremor suddenly ran through the ship. Milton overbalanced and fell against Brackish. Wine slopped onto the blanket.

Brackish's head came up. "Did you feel that?"

There was another tremor.

"I felt _that,_ " Milton said, pushing himself away from Brackish. "An earthquake?" He hoped not. He did not relish the idea of being twenty-four stories below ground during a quake.

"I don't think so," Brackish said, "but maybe blow out the candles just to be safe."

There was a third, much more pronounced tremor, just as Milton blew out the candles. He became aware of a low, almost inaudible humming and cocked his head. "Do you hear that?"

An instant later, the ship simply...came alive. There was no other way to describe it. All the instrument panels lit up. In a set of small paned windows, what they had determined was the central control panel displayed what looked like television static from the days before cable TV. The tremors became a barely perceptible vibration, like that which might be felt in a plane awaiting takeoff. Milton realized that the ship was straining against the clamps holding it in place.

For just a moment, Milton and Brackish stared around themselves in shocked silence, then both scrambled to their feet.

"What happened?" Brackish cried. "What did you do?"

"Me?" Milton exclaimed. "I didn't do anything! It just happened!"

They stared at one another.

"We gotta get everyone down here," Brackish said. "Who knows how long this'll last." He took a step, right into the puddle of slopped wine. "Clean this stuff up, babe -- we've got more important things to do right now." With an enthusiastic grin on his face, he turned toward the nearest instrument panel.

Milton sighed and quickly packed up their picnic. The statement was insensitive, but so purely Brackish that he couldn't even object. Besides, it was true. Though he had to wonder, as he shoved the picnic box into an out of the way corner, what exactly had caused the ship to so suddenly turn on when it had been dead for forty-nine years. 

He hoped that it wasn't something that they were going to regret.

5.

_July 4, 1996, 10:35 p.m._

The air smelled of smoke and ozone.

Despite all the filters in place, the purifiers in the labs, the scrubbers working overtime, the entire base smelled of smoke. While the hangar and most of the outbuildings on the surface had burned during the battle, there had been no fires underground. The base had survived intact. There had been casualties among the civilians on the surface, something that Milton knew Major Mitchell blamed himself for -- the major had been so caught up in preparing for the battle to come that he had forgotten about the migrant camp that had suddenly sprung up on the base, so had only belatedly opened the research facility to them as a shelter when the city-destroyer attacked.

Still, it could have been worse. Brackish was alive. So was the rest of the research staff, excepting only Jenny Adams, Colin Smith, and Patrick Jackson, who had been assisting Brackish with the examination of the captured alien. It had killed them in its attempt to escape.

So many dead, and the war not yet over. There had been survivors among the aliens; squads of men under the command of Major Mitchell and Captain Hiller were out "mopping them up," according to the phrase he'd heard General Grey use this morning. He was savagely glad to know that the creatures were to be given no quarter.

So many dead. Isolated as they had been down here in Area 51, they hadn't heard, at first, about the destruction on the surface. He and Brackish and the others had been working frantically in the scout ship, trying to learn as much as they could before its systems shut down again, so the first they had known about it had been when Mitchell had informed them that Air Force One was inbound and that they had fifteen minutes to get ready. They had learned about the devastation then, but it was still remote, like a story heard third-hand.

They had quickly become a part of the story, though.

Milton made his rounds in the hospital area quietly, efficiently, nodding politely to anyone he passed, though this late at night, there weren't many people around. Everyone was still either celebrating or sleeping. He hesitated before the last door, glancing quickly up and down the corridor before entering the room where Brackish lay comatose.

There was no change in his condition. The deep purple and black bruises from the alien's tentacles were vivid against the pale skin of his throat. He'd been hooked up to a ventilator because of the swelling; the hissing noise as it regulated his breathing was loud in the quiet room. Milton had insisted on a private room for him despite the base's current crowding. If Marilyn Whitmore could have a private room, then so could Brackish Okun. He winced a little at the comparison, still feeling guilty that he hadn't been able to save Mrs. Whitmore's life.

Milton put his clipboard down on the edge of the bed and moved the hard plastic visitor's chair from the corner to next to the bed. He slumped into the chair, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He was so tired. He couldn't remember when he had last slept, but he thought it might have been two nights ago.

"You would not believe how much has happened in the last forty-eight hours," he said, taking Brackish's limp hand in his own. "I don't suppose anyone told you that Jenny, Colin, and Patrick didn't make it. That creature killed them. But you needn't worry; Major Mitchell made sure that it'll never hurt anyone else. It can go into a tube in the Vault with its friends."  
He was quiet for a moment, rubbing his thumb gently back and forth across the back of Brackish's hand, hoping that at any moment, the lax fingers would tighten on his and those beautiful blue eyes would open. He sighed.

"Isn't it funny how things work out? If it hadn't been for the Casse boy, I'd've been there with you." He was still a bit sore from Russell Casse slamming him into a wall and demanding that his son receive treatment. "And now that boy is an orphan, but his father died saving us all.

"And the ship, Brackish! The ship flew. David Levinson flew it all the way up to the Mothership and back again. Captain Hiller helped, I guess. They brought down their shields and then destroyed the Mothership. You would have been so excited. Well, there will be plenty of video tapes for you to watch when you wake up -- from all over the world, too, since _everyone_ participated in the final battle.

"You, by the way, are going to be fine once your throat heals. And as soon as it does, we'll get that tube out of there. I know how uncomfortable those things are."

There was a slight noise from the corridor outside the closed door. Milton stood swiftly, moving his hand so that his fingers were on Brackish's pulse point and his eyes were on his wristwatch by the time the door opened and Major Mitchell peered in. Dressed in fatigues in a desert camouflage pattern instead of his normal neat uniform, he looked as rumpled and tired as Milton felt. Milton realized that the base's commanding officer probably hadn't slept in a while, either.

"Good evening, Dr. Isaacs," the major said. "I just wanted to check on Dr. Okun. I didn't realize you were still here."

Milton gently laid Brackish's hand down on the bed. "He's doing well, Major. He'll be back at work soon, I hope."

Mitchell stepped all the way into the room and let the door close behind him. "And how are _you_ doing, Doctor?" 

Surprised by the question, Milton met the major's eyes and was astounded by the sympathy and understanding he saw there. The major, he abruptly realized, knew about their relationship. He wondered how the man had found out, but there were still rules they both had to adhere to, so Milton just shrugged. "Oh, I'm fine. A little tired, but I'll be all right."

Mitchell moved into the room and reached out to put his hand on Milton's shoulder. "Please let me know if there's anything I can do for you, Dr. Isaacs," he said. "Anything at all. You're both an important part of this base, and I'm not sure we can function without you."

Milton nodded, touched. "Thank you, Major."

"You should get some sleep, Doctor," Mitchell added, his hand dropping to his side. "There's still a lot of work to be done, and the president wants to have a debriefing with everyone as early tomorrow as it can be organized. You're now in charge of the research program here -- until Dr. Okun's back up and around, anyway."

"So just a few days, then," Milton said. "I can do it for a few days."

Mitchell smiled briefly. "Of course you can." He clapped Milton on the shoulder. "Go on, get some sleep. I'll let you know when the debriefing is scheduled."

"Thank you, Major." Milton hoped that the major understood that his thanks covered more than just Mitchell letting him know about the debriefing; he thought from the major's small smile that he was successful.

"Don't mention it," the major responded.

Milton waited until the door had closed behind the major before returning to the bedside. "Can you believe that, Brackish? We’re apparently going to need to work on our stealth. Who would've thought that a _Star Wars_ fan could be so perceptive?" He shook his head. "He's not wrong, though. I need to get some sleep." He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Brackish's forehead, while gently squeezing his fingers. "Good night then, Brackish. I'll see you in the morning." 

He walked back to his quarters, positive that Brackish would be fine in a few days.

+1

_August 13, 2016_

Milton stood outside the double doors of the base chapel, peering through the windows at the crowd gathered within. Even though the doors were closed, he could hear the buzz of conversation. He backed away, his hands shaking.

"I'm nervous," he said to his companion.

David Levinson's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Nothing at all to be nervous about. I know; I've done this before. Twice." He gently reached over and straightened Milton's blue silk bowtie. He stepped back and gave Milton's tux a once over. "You look great, and you're going to be fine."

"Thanks, Director Levinson."

"David, Milton" the man reminded him. "David. We've known each other entirely too long for that nonsense."

"I'm nervous," Milton said again, by way of apology. "What if I forget the words?"

"They're pretty simple," David replied. "Don't worry. You'll be fine. This was your idea, you know."

"I know, I know. What was I thinking?" Milton clasped his hands together to try to keep them from shaking.

Floyd Rosenberg, dressed in a neat suit with a blue tie, came around the corner of the hallway followed closely by Brackish Okun, grinning like a loon.

"Hi, guys," Floyd said. Waiting for us?"

Milton's eyes widened. Brackish had chosen to wear a tux, but instead of a bowtie, the woolen scarf Milton had given him the day he'd awakened from his coma was buttoned around his neck. He sported a pair of comfortable-looking TARDIS-themed Converse sneakers. The outfit was both formal and purely Brackish, especially as his hair was as wild as ever.

"Babe!" he cried, taking in Milton's tux. "You look _great!_ "

A smile lit Milton's face. "So do you. You look wonderful." His hands were suddenly no longer shaking; this was perfect, this was exactly what was supposed to happen. 

"Dr. Isaacs," David said, his eyes twinkling, "Dr. Okun. Are you ready?"

"We've been ready for this for ages," Brackish replied. "Let's get this show on the road."

"All right, then." David signaled through the window to someone. The buzz of conversation died away. David and Floyd swung open the doors.

Brackish reached down and twined his fingers with Milton's, and hand in hand, to the bombastic strains of "The Imperial March" from _Star Wars_ , the pair stepped into the future.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I hope you enjoyed this!  
> 2\. The details of Brackish and Milton meeting in a hospital and Brackish's weird amnesia are borrowed from the tie-in novel _Silent Zone_ by Stephen Molstad.  
> 3\. Thanks to the wonderful Bethynyc for the beta.


End file.
